


brilliance cascading

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (non-realistic), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Burnplay, Castration, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Hate Sex, M/M, Mentioned Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports, about the following:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: “Good lord,” Jopson breathes. “You’re vile. Perverse little git.” A beat of silence; a hard pulse in Neil’s cock. “What else?”A phone call between two business associates.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	brilliance cascading

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/areyougonnabe/status/1329291065262706688?s=21) by [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder), which was in turn inspired by that one scene from Succession.

“Are you touching your dick? Got one of those grubby little hands in your pants?”

“You know I do,” Neil drawls - he’d been at it for a few minutes before he dialed Jopson’s number, fondling and rubbing at himself with no real intent. He sprang up hard almost as soon as Jopson answered, which is— Well, it’s only to be expected, really. Pavlov’s messy little pup, Jopson might say if he could see him, gagging for it just from the anticipation. Maybe he’d try to get him on a video call one of these days.

“You’re just disgusting, aren’t you. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do to me?”

He‘s smiling down the phone as he says it, Neil can hear it - that quiet simpering smile that’s just waiting for you to make a fool of yourself. Which is the point of all this, he supposes. 

He can feel the oily weight of that smile slipping down the phone line onto him as he groans, unhurried and thoughtful, and worms his fingers down to stroke his balls. “Hmm. Like to mark you up, I should think.” He returns to his prick, thumbs at the piss-slit until it almost almost almost hurts too much. “Light a fag and blister those flat little tits of yours with it. Make you cry, would you like that?”

He hears a choked noise from down the line. “Good lord,” Jopson breathes. “You’re vile. Perverse little git.” A beat of silence; a hard pulse in Neil’s cock. “What else?”

Neil clears his throat. “I’d like to see you covered in piss, Thomas.”

“Would you?” Jopson’s voice is coolly unimpressed, but there’s a spark in it, a new little curious edge. _Go on, then._

“Oh, yes. I think it’d be a sight. Mine, yours, doesn’t matter. Running down your nice wool trousers, sticking your pretty hair down to your forehead.” Neil fucks up shallowly into his own fist when he hears the abortive click of Jopson’s swallow; fucks up again, begins riding his own hand with lazy intent. “Want you to fucking stink with it. And when you strip your trousers off anybody could see your cock as plain as day, your knickers would be soaked. You’d have got so hard for it too.”

“Is this what you think about all day?” He can just hear Jopson’s breath starting to come heavier, his words starting to lose their polished thread. “You are grimy, aren’t you? There’s not a single clean thought in that head of yours.”

Neil grins wide and indulgent and obnoxious; wishes, again, for a video call - he’d be pressed to get it up being treated this way in person, like as not it’d end in a fight, but he did so wish Jopson could see and disdain this smile. “You don’t know the half, darling.” An idea occurs, something he’s been turning over in his head in his idle hours of fleshly reflection - he changes tack abruptly. “You been fucking anyone else?”

Silence. A dry little laugh. “We are not _fucking,_ Cornelius. I wouldn’t dignify this with such a weighty title. _Fucking_ is when you’re down on the floor of the toilets getting the knees of your synthetic slacks soaked in other men’s piss for the privilege of choking on my cock. This is slacking off, if anything.” Then, sounding _almost_ disinterested, “Why? Is there somebody you’d like me to have been fucking?”

Neil hums again, bares his teeth to the empty room around him. Licks his lips to prime them for the bite. “Your boss.”

“Well.” A grunt, then, a shuffling sound, distinctly unprofessional - a click; he’s on speaker. Jopson must be putting his other hand to use. Rubbing around his arsehole, most likely, one dry finger pushing at his entrance like it’s a cunt to be fondled. “That’s repulsive. Man’s twice my age.”

“Oh, yes. And balding. And a drunkard to boot, isn’t that right?”

“Th— Yes.” Jopson almost sounds ashamed himself now, and that’s, well, it’s kind of intriguing, but not what they’re here to do. Back on track.

“All the same. I’ve been thinking about you bent over his desk lately, so indulge me, won’t you?”

“I shall not.” Neil can _hear_ Jopson’s sneer. Can hear, also, the cap of a tube being opened. A sound of fabric, a sound of flesh.

“No? Don’t you want to hear what he’s doing to you?”

“I can— Hmm— I can guess.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” He shoves his trousers down his hips, mashes his phone between cheek and shoulder so he can use his free hand to cup his sack and tug gently. “Guessed at it often before, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“I think you have. I think you’ve been lying awake at night with a thick silicon piece up your arse, spunking up your chest and wishing it was old Crozier giving it to you all sour-mouthed and sweaty instead of a cold dead hunk of plastic. I think you like to make believe he’s got a nice hard cock to fuck you into the steelcase with, ‘stead of that limp little jelly he’s probably got.” Jopson scoffs, an improbably delicate sound, and something squelches on his end of the call. Neil presses on in the same rich vein he discovered earlier. “All that whisky, though, must go right through a man - part of the appeal for you, I think. He could be buried balls deep in you and suddenly can’t hold on, floods you with his piss. Rivers of it, too, fucking rank with the drink and hot as hell. Running down your legs onto the dingy old carpet. He’d probably go down on his knees on the dirty floor after and drink it out of you to make amends, hmm?” 

“You only think such things,” - more slick sounds - “because you have a filthy mind, Cornelius. I assure you I have done nothing of the sort, nor wished for it.” Gritted teeth, and if he were here Neil could set his own teeth to that tense neck and bite down until he was tugged away by the ear. “It is entirely your own perversions that make you think up this filth.”

“Good.” Neil spits in his hand; holds in his mind a pleasing image of the mortally disgusted face Jopson is no doubt making at the sound as he puts the hand to good work as a sleeve for his shaft. “I’d rather my cum be the only load I fuck out of your arse.”

“That’s rich,” Jopson laughs. “I’ve seen your prick. You’d be lucky to get that skinny little thing in, much less fuck me with it.”

It is only the fact that he knows Jopson is well aware of what exactly he can do with his _little thing_ (which, honestly, is only the _slightest_ bit below average) and the layer of physical distance between them that keeps Neil from actually taking offense. Instead he twists the hand at his sack and squeezes his prick tight enough to hurt, imagining Jopson’s soft slender hand there instead - removing the pitiful organ, pinching it off like a fallow bud on a fruit tree. He feels a fresh wave of arousal at the thought of it, the stinging horror, the warm blood spilling down his thighs like a tongue in his arse. It could only ever be Jopson to do something like that to him, and this knowledge glows and sparks off in his mind - a special thing, just between them, the only man who could unman him.

“You’re revolting,” Jopson is saying now, as if he’s been reading Neil’s thoughts, spitting the words down the phone with a crisp surety that is - not ruined, not at all, rather layered deliciously by the frantic slick sounds that now accompany his speech. “You’re tugging on your little prick right now, hmm? Letting it drool out juice in your little hands? Getting yourself dirty?” 

He takes a breath to reply - _Have to do something since you won’t let me bury my face in your arse, but then you scrub yourself over so terribly there’s probably not enough of a smell to be getting on with_ \- but Jopson carries on, breathless and savage: “You always were a careless one. Living in filth and you couldn’t give a damn, it’s all you know, isn’t it? Rotten little man. All the way through. I could shove my fingers right into the core of you and you’d be— Putrid— Right through, wouldn’t you?” It’s now, of all times, that Jopson’s voice takes on an affectionate tilt, and it’s this, of all things, that makes Neil seize and groan and spurt hard-long-filthy up into his hands and onto the hem of his sweatshirt. 

“Christ, man,” Neil groans. His prick is still twitching, still spitting up cum on his limp hand. “Bloody fucking Christ, Thomas.” 

Harsh breathing from the other end—

And the line goes dead.

This does piss him off, the way Jopson always hangs up before cumming. Hiding away like a cat who wants to die in peace, it’s maddening. Even worse, there’s something of the inexplicable in Neil’s indignation, because - well, he’s seen Jopson cum, and it’s a bit boring, actually. Just a tense little shiver and a bitten lip, almost completely silent - always turns his face away, too, which Neil feels quite takes the fun out of it. There’s no reason he should be wishing Jopson had stayed on the call, no reason he should be wanting so incorrigibly to hear what couldn’t be more than a soft grunt and possibly a sigh. A rustle of fabric. Another grunt, if he’s lucky, as Jopson cleans himself up. 

He gives his hand a desultory scrub with the front of his shirt and kicks out of his sweaty trousers to slide down fully onto the bed. The grass, he thinks, is always fucking greener.


End file.
